


heavy eyes could hardly hold us

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: FFXIVWrite 2020 [14]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Baking As An Avenue For Discussions of Trauma, Bread, Conversations, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, References to Depression, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), This sounds really sad but it’s mostly soft, discussions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: G’raha breathes a laugh. “My apologies. I… I just realized how much my memory of you had been distorted by time and perception.” He lifts his hand toward his face unthinkingly, pressing a kiss to the center of the whitened mark, and says, “Thank you for trusting me.”
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: FFXIVWrite 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906210
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	heavy eyes could hardly hold us

**Author's Note:**

> FFXIVWrite 15: Ache

“What gave you that?”

Fahmi blinks, pausing his kneading to ask, “What?” He shoves a braid back over his shoulder with the back of his hand, the shorter style one he struggles to adjust to, and ends up with a streak of flour on the collar of his apron. 

G’raha startles as if he hadn’t intended to voice his question, ears flicking upward with a start. He fumbles, mouth opening and closing as he debates repeating himself, and manages to make a croaking noise instead of any coherent speech. 

“It’s okay, Raha. You c’n ask things of me. We’re friends, yeah?”

He swallows, throat suddenly tight. They  _ are _ friends, granted you use the term loosely, but G’raha is acutely aware of how his feelings do not fit within that little bubble of trust and care. He doesn’t want to ask after him and his adventures as someone removed from them. He wants to be  _ part  _ of them, the storied and steadfast companion. 

Before that, he needs to be honest about his wants. 

“I… pray forgive my curiosity,” he says, staring at the bread dough Fahmi is working on instead of his face (or chest, or arms. By the Twelve, he is so smitten). He pauses, right hand pulling on the lacing of his left bracer to relieve some of his jitters. “I wanted to know where your scars came from. There are many I have no knowledge of.”

Fahmi nods as if it was a casual request he has received many a time before. “Which ones d’you wan’ me t’ talk about?” His left hand spasms, the sharp movement carrying up his arm in a thrill of unexpected pain, and he hisses through his teeth.  _ “Aaah, overdid it.  _ That hurts like Azeyma’s fire.”

“Are you alright?” G’raha asks, aether rushing to his fingertips like how his (Exarch’s) memories tell him is intrinsically right. 

Fahmi nods again, this time looking more furious with his body than anything else. “Jus’ fine. Old wounds an’ all that noise.”

He taps the dough ball with his other hand before picking it up and dropping it unceremoniously into a proofing basket, covering it with a kitchen towel, and washing up, left arm barely moving unless he needs two hands to complete the clean up. 

G’raha waffles between pressing and leaving it be, his impulsivity getting the better of him when he says, “Could we start with that one? The, ah, one that hurts?”

He is grateful that when Fahmi turns toward him, hands damp from washing dishes, he does not truly  _ look  _ at him. He stares in his vague direction, searching for some tell before giving an odd and stilted nod. “C’n you… meet me in my room? I don’ feel comfortable talkin’ like that out here. Not somethin’ I want Tataru worryin’ about.” 

“I—of course,” he replies, standing from his seat by the counter. He hadn’t intended to turn the frog-bread-making session into a discussion of all the trauma he never saw in storybooks, but he cannot say he is not ready for it. 

There are new scars from between when he had defeated Hades and when Elidibus had made himself known, reddish tissue bisecting older, brighter, more  _ inhuman  _ marks—all of his past losses and triumphs that had served as windows for Light to come spilling forth, stealing their color same as it had bleached his soul. 

He cannot imagine how they ache, how every single one likely has a memory attached to it, but he also knows that after a while… all of it blurs together. 

(When had he lost his hand, his wrist, the need to breathe? When had crystal claimed that? How many years had he waited, hoping against all hope that the Warrior of Light could be saved? He cannot separate the centuries.)

The walk up to Fahmi’s room in the Rising Stones is full of forced nonchalance. He’s been in there before. They’ve slept in the same bed and split bread together as friends and comrades. 

It should not be so hard to turn a doorknob. 

He can hear Fahmi finishing up, sandal heels clicking against stone as he approaches. G’raha lets himself in to avoid being asked why he is simply standing here. He is already mortified enough. 

He finds the nearest chair and sits in it, attempting to project confidence and not let his nerves show. Fahmi laughs when he arrives, saying, “No need t’ posture with me. I c’n see your aether.”

“Oh,” he replies, cheeks flushing. “May I melt into the floor and never return?”

“And miss hearin’ a tale ‘bout your dearest Warrior of Light an’ Darkness?”

“I—you— _ mine?” _

Fahmi giggles into the back of a hand, the white, nearly eye-shaped mark in the center reminding G’raha of exactly what he had asked to learn. 

He unbuttons his shirt casually as if to change clothes, but does not replace it with another after it’s been tossed into the washbasket. He sits down on the bed and pats the space next to him, kicking off his shoes and crossing his legs. 

G’raha approaches slowly, not unlike someone drawing close to a wild animal (though he supposes the most dangerous thing in this room is not Fahmi and his unintentional devastation and is instead his own heart). He sits down stiffly, hands on his thighs and eyes fixed on the floor instead of bare skin. 

“So y’ wanted t’ know about the big ol’ hand ones?”

“Yes,” he says sharply, perhaps too sharply. He is more anxiety than man. 

Fahmi reaches out and takes one of his hands in his, placing his palm up in offering. “You c’n touch. It doesn’ hurt as much as it used to.” 

“But it still hurts,” G’raha replies softly, staring down at the scar in vague disbelief. He knows Fahmi’s other hand has a matching mark, though this one is the larger of the two. Both of them can be seen from either side, the type of thing that makes him think maybe he had been cut clean through.

“Yeah,” he says in a faraway voice, “it does.” 

He shakes himself out of it, taking a deep breath before launching into story. It feels difficult to follow at points, but G’raha darent ask him to slow down, think it through, and make it coherent because he can hear a familiar fatigue in his voice as he speaks. It’s the same one he uses when he talks about Haurchefant or any of the others he has lost (failed, he had said once and G’raha had spilled his heart so thoroughly it was a miracle he had not shouted his affection from the rooftops). He would not ask him to think on it any harder than he already has.

“So… Yotsuyu… gave these to you. I would not have guessed,” he says, feeling mildly nauseous at the knowledge that Fahmi had been broken so thoroughly during what he had thought was nearly the best of his years. He traces the border between skin and scarring and apologizes when Fahmi shudders. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I don’ usually let people… touch those. Not pretty or good. Hien was—he always looked real upset, when he saw ‘em. Not sure if it was with Yotsuyu or himself. Probably me, though. He expected better. Expected me t’ be okay.”

G’raha grimaces. He had also expected it to be another price paid for victory and not pain for the sake of trying to beat the kindness out of him. He is no different from those who use him as a weapon, a figurehead, the Champion of Light whose feats are known and recorded. 

“Hey,” Fahmi whispers, sounding vaguely amused, “don’ think on it like that. I c’n feel the angst from here.” 

G’raha breathes a laugh. “My apologies. I… I just realized how much my memory of you had been distorted by time and perception.” He lifts his hand toward his face unthinkingly, pressing a kiss to the center of the whitened mark, and says, “Thank you for trusting me.”

Fahmi blushes, blood rushing to his face brightly enough that it spills down to his chest in splotches. His tail thumps against the mattress. “You don’ have t’ thank me. You deserve truth.” 

“Even if I lied to you?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I keep lying?”

He frowns. “Is that where my dinner rolls went, Raha?”

They dissolve into laughter, smiling helplessly as anxiety begins to ebb from the air. G’raha startles when Fahmi leans in and rests his head against his, eyes closed and chest vibrating on an inaudible attempt at a purr. 

He leans into it and does not let go of his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> im love fahmi i care him so much
> 
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
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